alas, the fleeting years go by
by ohprongs
Summary: Once upon a time, the Boy Who Lived was a child just like all the others. - ten years, each told in a two hundred word drabble.


**a/n:** i've had this idea for a long time actually, but it's taken me a while to get around to writing it.

in other news, i'm looking for a beta! head on over to my profile for details, if you're interested.

**disclaimer:** shout out to jkr for allowing me to play with her toys. inspired by a line from _opposite of adults _by chiddy bang, of all things.

* * *

**i.**

He's one, and he doesn't realise much of what's going on, but he knows his Mummy and he knows his Daddy, and they both snuggle up to him. He's kicking his legs and waving his fists and his Daddy's planting wet kisses on his tummy - he's only in his nappy on the hot July afternoon - and he's squealing in delight, and his Mummy's laughing, and happiness exudes from their small bedroom in Godric's Hollow.

His Daddy's hand runs up his side and tickles under his chin, and then it reaches over him and tickles his Mummy. She laughs again and presses his Daddy's fingers to her lips like when she presses her lips to Harry's forehead, and then his Mummy leans over him, her hair tickling his face as she kisses his Daddy, and Harry reaches up to tug some of the copper-gold strands that dangle in front of him.

"Harry, no," his Daddy chuckles, gently releasing his Mummy's hair from his small chubby fist, and Harry doesn't realise much of what's going on, but he knows he's Harry and he knows his Mummy and he knows his Daddy, and happiness exudes from their small bedroom in Godric's Hollow.

**.**

**ii.**

He's two - well, nearly - and babbling away as he plays with the red Lego bricks, stacking them up on top of each other. Dudley comes running into the living room, chocolate staining his fingertips, and roots through the Lego box, the noise crashing against Harry's ears.

Changing his mind, Harry pushes himself up off the floor, chubby arms leaning into Dudley's barely-used book box that sits by one of the sofa, and he picks out the book that he likes with the pictures of the owls swooping across the night sky and the full moon hanging in the background. He hoots every time he opens it, and he opens it now. Dudley makes a shushing noise that he's copied from his Mummy and Harry babbles back, and Aunt Petunia sighs from the kitchen. The oven door shuts and he hears the whirr and click of the timer being set, and then she comes in, cooing.

"Dudders, are you okay, sweetie?"

Dudley throws a green Lego brick at her and it hits her flowery apron, and she praises him for is aim. She looks at Harry, still oo-oo-oo-ing at the owl in the picture, and looks away.

**.**

**iii.**

He's three and Uncle Vernon keeps glaring at him over the top of his Daily Mail with enough disdain to suggest that his facial expressions have the power to make Harry fall silent. His moustache bristles as he snorts, throwing down the paper on the table.

"Preposterous," he blusters, picking up his knife and fork as Petunia puts a plate down in front of her husband. He starts to eat, muttering all the while about the scroungers ruining the economy for perfectly decent folk like them, and don't people realise they can't get something for nothing these days?

Halfway through his father's rant Dudley knocks his plastic plate on the floor, up-ending the bacon and egg within it. Uncle Vernon chortles at his sons antics, Aunt Petunia rushing to wipe up the mess with her ever-present dishcloth.

"Oh, Diddy," she says.

"Atta boy," praises Uncle Vernon, surveying his son. "I can see you've got all the makings of a boxer. Did you see that right hook, Petunia?" He glances over at Harry, who catches his uncle's gaze and hastily returns to his breakfast. "Eat your cereal, boy," is the only comment, and Harry finishes his food in silence.

**.**

**iv.**

He's four and lying in his cramped little bed on his cramped little cupboard, wondering, wondering, wondering.

Today at school it was Show and Tell, and the theme was family - they've just started their very first year and the teachers want to find out all about them. Freddie had showed off his photograph of his dog, Reuben, and his Mum and Dad, and Harry had a longing in his heart and he felt like maybe that was something he'd had before. Only, it couldn't have been, because he lived with his aunt and uncle and cousin, and when Miss Joseph had marked the picture Harry'd drawn she'd given him a sad sort of smile.

He decides he'll ask Aunt Petunia tomorrow about why all the other boys and girls live with their Mummies and Daddies and he doesn't.

(When he asks, her eyes soften ever so slightly behind her cold cold mask but she still speaks in the clipped tone she always addresses him with.

"You look like him, but you've got her eyes," she says, and then she goes back to wiping down the worktops and shoos him from the kitchen. It's the first time he hears those words.)

**.**

**v.**

He's five, searching for two faces in the crowd that look a bit like him: a woman with green eyes just like his and a man with black hair that never stays flat, no matter how many times Aunt Petunia scrapes across his scalp with a comb -

He doesn't find them, and he blinks a few times behind his glasses, moving up in the queue to stand next to Joanna and Paul and his friend Emily. All he can see as he cranes his neck are waving parents, cheering proudly for their daughters and sons. Uncle Vernon's there, puffing, pompously proud, moustache quivering with excitement as Dudley runs - sort of - across the finish line, round face red. He's not last, but only because he pushed two of his fellow runners over just past halfway, and they're rolling on the grass clutching grazed knees.

As they call "Ready, steady, go!" for his race - egg and spoon, and he's got his tongue between his teeth as he holds it, incredibly careful - Harry feels a pang in his chest at knowing none of the parents are there cheering just for him, and he thinks he'd much prefer grazed knees to a grazed heart.

**.**

**vi.**

He's six and in the garage, having to tidy Dudley's old toys for asking about flying motorcycles, when the flash of red catches his eye. Before him Dudley's discarded bicycle is parked, one rusty stabiliser hanging lopsided. Harry's sure Dudley asked for a _red_ bicycle just to spite his cousin. It worked, too. Harry had never been more jealous in his life.

He wheels it into the gap behind Uncle Vernon's new Mercedes and has sat on for a minute when he hears plodding footsteps. In his haste to hide his moment of luxury, he trips over the loose stabiliser and cuts his knee on the stone floor. He's clutching it as his uncle's imposing figure fills the doorway.

"Boy! What are you -"

Harry's staring wide-eyed at his knee. Where there was a trickle of blood and dirty skin, it's now unmarked. He looks up and finds Uncle Vernon pale. His moustache quivers and he opens his mouth a couple of times before closing it.

"Never mind. Come inside."

Uncle Vernon seems capable only of short sentences, and Harry, relieved he no longer has to spend time in the grimy garage, slips past his uncle and into Number Four.

**.**

**vii. **

He's seven and hurrying along the pavement with his aunt, who's clutching his hand tightly in one of hers and gripping the strap of her handbag with the closed fist of her other, arm across her body. The pucker of her lips suggests she has just sucked a lemon.

Harry glances at his aunt and opens his mouth. "Aunt Petunia -"

"No questions!" she snaps, avoiding looking at her nephew.

The man had been very odd. His hat was rather bright and rather large, and he'd said something that repeats in Harry's mind over and over like when Dudley plays his cartoons and controls the remote. "Thank you, Mr Potter! Your parents are gone, but never forgotten! Long live The Chosen One!"

It's not the first time this has happened, but it's the first time he's really aware enough to process and remember it.

"But who -" he tries again, stumbling to keep up with her at the pace she's going.

"No-one!"

She scurries along the pavement and the heels of her shoes click-clack into a puddle that splashes on the bottom of Harry's - Dudley's - jeans, his sock also getting wet.

"What did he mean 'long live the -'"

_"No questions!"_

**.**

**viii.**

He's eight, sitting on the sofa and sighing as Mrs Figg shows him yet another picture of her marmalade coloured cat Trixy, who died several years ago.

"A dear cat she was," says Mrs Figg, and Harry nods in agreement, taking an over baked cherry and raisin biscuit from the dish on the coffee table. It's the first sweet thing he's had since he sneaked downstairs to steal some crumbs from Dudley's birthday cake a couple of weeks ago, and it'll occupy his mouth when Mrs Figg's inevitable questioning of how he is ensues. "Lovely thing, always purring. Anyway, how are - good Lord!"

Harry, having bitten into the biscuit, pulls it out his mouth with a wince, and lodged in the bloody lump is one of his bottom teeth.

"Ow," he says.

"I bet the Tooth Fairy'll be visiting you tonight!" claps Mrs Figg.

Harry smiles, but he doubts it. Dudley always gets at least five pounds per tooth, but the last time Harry stuck a tooth under his pillow, the only thing he found there in the morning was a dead spider. Not that he minded, of course - spiders are quite friendly really, and much nicer than his cousin.

**.**

**ix.**

He's nine and wants to dump the pitcher of Pimms over Aunt Marge's head, ice and all.

"Great nosh, Petunia," compliments Aunt Marge, and Aunt Petunia gives her a tight smile. After Uncle Vernon nods rather pointedly at him, Harry clears his throat.

"More, Aunt Marge?" he asks.

Aunt Marge narrows her piggy eyes at him. "What are you implying, boy?" She drains her rather large glass. "Where are your manners?"

"Oh, he didn't mean anything by it, Marge," Uncle Vernon says jovially, staring daggers at Harry. "Petunia's always on at us with this small portions nonsense, isn't that right, dear?"

"Oh yes," nods Aunt Petunia, agreeing quickly. She, too, turns to Harry and nods in Aunt Marge's direction.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Marge," he says through gritted teeth. "I just wondered if I could get you anything else."

She hands him her plate - "A tad more...and again...and a little more...that's the jobby" - and looks at Dudley, striking up a conversation with the boy, ignoring Harry when he puts her plate back down in front of her.

One of these days, he decides, he's going to make her blow up like a balloon and float far, far away.

**.**

**x. **

He's ten and red red red in the face.

"Ooh, Harry and Emily sitting in a tree -"

"Shut up, Dudley!"

His cousin laughs loudly and Piers Polkiss jeers at him. "K-I-S-S-I-N-G -"

Harry doesn't look at Emily; instead he turns away from the boys in the playground to head over to the unused climbing frame on the trim trail. She'd only come over to check if he was alright after being whacked in the face with the football, his glasses clattering to the floor. He'd scrambled to pick them up before Dudley crunched his foot down on them as he liked to do - the Sellotape wouldn't hold them together forever - and she'd got them for him, their hands brushing as he took them from her.

He hears Dudley laugh as he walks away.

From the top of the climbing frame he watches all the other boys and girls. Absently his fingers trail through his hair and come to stop on his scar. _The Chosen One_, that was what that man had called him all those years ago on the rainy street with Aunt Petunia.

Harry sighs. Whoever it was, he wishes they hadn't chosen him.

**.**

**xi. **

He's nearly eleven, hiding out in a hut in the middle of the choppy sea, hoping something magical might happen after all the owls and the relentless letters and the strange people in the street clasping his hands.

Although he doesn't know it, his world is about to change forever.


End file.
